


A Different Kind Of Learning Curve

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Squirting, railroad ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He believed in the basic beliefs of the Brotherhood, sure, but he knew that in this desolate, unforgiving world, exceptions should never be left unexplored.  </p><p>Which is why he gratefully ignored the fact that the new Knight Paladin Danse was sponsoring was not only a synth-sympathizer, but a Railroad spy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Kind Of Learning Curve

Gelid air once again wheezed out of the rigid metal infrastructure overhead, bringing an epidemic of gooseflesh among the several scribes using the late hour to complete menial work. There was a constant thrum that permeated through the main deck, vibrating from the nuclear core of the Prydwen and conforming with the loud clanging of the coolant and helium whistling through dark steel pipes. Quinlan had heard that the more accustomed of soldiers found the noise akin to a lullaby, but he was sure it was more fuel for his rampant insomnia.  

He usually catalogued schematics and slues of paperwork late into each cold night. If he weren’t particularly fond of his position as head of research and development, the bags under his eyes might actually begin to bother him. Not that he was one to personally head much mind to other’s perceptions of his appearance, but the Elder had once given them a briefing on looking at least presentable (he had been looking at Ingram at the time) so the troops didn’t start to think they could skip out on personal hygiene. For a man settling right into middle age – at least, the middle age for someone who lived a pretty cushy life compared to the rather simple minded folk of the wastes – he didn’t look half bad, if he were being humbly honest. He showered daily and kept his glasses clean, his clothes dry, though he supposed those were the luxuries of a brother who had only ever known the life of the Order of the Quill. Even in his youthful scribe days when he was still only expected to shoot something when his Knight was for some reason incapacitated, he was blessed enough to get little more than dirt in his hair. Maybe he stepped in a pile of brahmin shit once.  

But, being more brains than brawn as he was, it did afford him much time to think since his initiation into the Brotherhood at the ripe age of eighteen. He wasn’t as blind as some of the new muscle-heavy Knights that strutted their way around the decks like they already owned the place, something that really became common occurrence since the victory over the Enclave a decade prior. He believed in the basic beliefs of the Brotherhood, sure, but he knew that in this desolate, unforgiving world, exceptions should never be left unexplored.  

Which is why he gratefully ignored the fact that the new Knight Paladin Danse was sponsoring was not only a synth-sympathizer, but a Railroad spy. 

He had a hunch ever since she came aboard the ship, Maxson praising her in-depth knowledge of the Institute and synths yet still only being a newly thawed vault dweller. Even with the hunt for her son being steadily afoot, and the assassination of Kellogg already breaching old news, connections were just not being made, things just not adding up. But for now, she didn’t appear dangerous. If anything, her goal was probably just to feed Brotherhood operations movements to that old hag Desdemona, who’s name Quinlan only knew because of faint rumors on the wind that came in from the field. Whatever the case, Quinlan had purposely neglected to inform Elder Maxson about this knowledge, even though it had been several months since her indoctrination – he had made a silent promise to himself that if he caught wind of anything more than basal information leaking beyond the ruins of Boston Airport, he’d become the world’s biggest snitch.  

That has yet to happen, and if he were being sincere, he greatly enjoys her company.  

She was a thrill to talk to; open and honest (for the most part), enthusiastic in a subtle way that Quinlan was pretty sure was genuine. She appreciates comics just as much as he does, and even though she’d said her late husband was more of the Grognak fanatic to her unquantifiable love of Astoundingly Awesome Tales, she was superbly well versed in even the most obscure of trivia. Sometimes she stopped by just to chat about a new Unstoppables theory she’d formulated on the vertibird ride up. Other than the previously discussed occurrence, she never mentioned her husband otherwise. Or her son, for that matter.  

And that’s what truly fascinated Quinlan.  

He’d hate to admit that he’s spent an absurd amount of down time wondering if she truly missed her family. It was a slightly morbid thought to ponder over, but to be so open about it yet not ever sound especially remorseful was just something that piqued his interest. So, in this cold, late hour, shuffling papers into assorted folders in ways that made the pads of his fingers feel dry and sordid, he hopes with slightly bated breath that the Knight will report in from her away team and he can finally ask some personal questions.  

At around four in the morning, he hears the telling sound of a docking vertibird, and shortly thereafter the woman occupying his thoughts knocks softly on his metal threshold.  

“Long ride up?” Quinlan merely glances to acknowledge her presence, but it’s all he needs in order to take note of the grime caking her tan skin and muddying the blue of her vault suit. She smells of sweat and earth, something that was oddly welcoming in the metallic sterility of the Prydwen.  

“Not terribly so,” she smiles, making her way over to stand idly by his desk. She stands at parade rest, and Quinlan has to question how extensively the Railroad must have trained her to act the soldier. If Emmett were awake he’d probably be begging her to feed him some mystery meat from the wastes, the damn glutinous cat. “Scribe Eleanor said she would have a full briefing of the tech found in the Satellite Array done by tomorrow, sir.”   

“Good, good…” Quinlan trails off, standing to file away the schematics he had been previously reviewing. The Knight doesn’t move, having not been dismissed yet her hands do relax somewhat at the casual air Quinlan puts off. “May I ask you a personal question?” he asks when the file cabinet firmly slides shut. She seems taken aback by the sudden inquiry but nonetheless mutters a gentle yes, sir. 

“Do you miss your husband?” He asks, turning to face her with what he hopes is a neutral, blank expression. He didn’t want the question to sound off-putting, nor did he want a parroting of the same pitiful gibber she probably told just about any stranger who knew the story of the Sole Survivor of Vault 111. She seems to understand his intention, and sighs heavily as she leans forwardly into the desk, taking a moment to articulate a proper response.  

“People die, Quinlan.” She says almost wistfully, staring at a divot in the ceiling that Quinlan can’t quite see. “I met Nate while celebrating my certification as a medical doctor at a bar. We shared a short drink and had an even shorter marriage.” 

“I don’t know why I married him. Really don’t know how he talked me into having a kid.” She pauses to look at Quinlan with eyes he cannot describe, “So, yeah, I miss him. But I’m still asking myself if I loved him.”  

Quinlan opens his mouth to say something, but when his thought dies in his throat and he’s stuck looking like a fish, he sighs. That certainly answered the follow up question he had planned – but he’s stuck wondering if that’d pinched a nerve. He never once considered himself inept at grasping social cues, but when he looks back at her, he’s lost trying to put a name to the expression sprawled across her high cheek bones and round face, and further lost finding words to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Quinlan says after a while, scratching the back of his neck like an awkward schoolboy. It definitely sounds sincere, and he hopes that’s enough to make the mood shift. He can’t help but stare daggers into the patterned steel that constructs the floor beneath his heavy shoes. 

“It’s fine, Proctor,” he lifts his head to meet her smile, “I’ve just…never told anyone that before. Goodnight, Quinlan.”  

She makes her way out of his quarters after quickly rushing over to plant a chaste kiss to his bony cheek, leaving him dumbfounded and rosy with a gloved hand rubbing at his face abashedly.  

“Dismissed, Knight.” He whispers to himself.  

*** 

Weeks pass and one peck on the cheek turns to many, which turn to more heated grazing of lips and hushed whispers in early morning hours. The only shyness Quinlan has towards the prospect is that he’s pretty sure he has at least a good ten years on her, but he’s also pretty sure that she _likes_ that.  

He’d never really matched the word ‘innocent’ to the Knight before, but he definitely was not expecting this level of tenacious sleaze, either. Not that he wasn’t grateful just being along for the ride, so to speak.  

She’d once, in very recent memory, pushed him against the dusty cotton of his mattress, sliding soft lips up his jawline to whisper _please, daddy, I_ _need you inside me_ while she rut against him like a dog. Quinlan secretly thanked fortune for the clamber of foul-mouthed recruits making their way through the corridor, or he may have done something he quite possibly have regretted.  

He’d love to think that his image of celibate old geezer was maintained in the eyes of the initiates – and most certainly in the eyes of one Arthur Maxson – but he knew that the man he saw in the mirror was, at the very least, a sinful man, and a disgrace to his Order at most. Getting mighty close to fucking another member of the Brotherhood was never something on Quinlan’s checklist to a successful career.  

And he tried to remind himself of that when it was yet again another ungodly hour of night, hunched over a file cabinet as he was, eyes roaming over curves that had nothing to do with the newly recovered weapon schematics tucked into the folders handled so graciously by a particular Knight.  

She’s talking about the sheer amount of technical documents she’d found in a crate during a completely random excursion to the Malden Center, or rather, she’s trying to downplay the Railroad operation she was on when she happened to find them. Quinlan, the poor, sidetracked fool, stopped listening when he realized the not so small twitch in his pants as he watches her mouth move.  

“If it suits you, Proctor, I’ll be going,” she says, which draws Quinlan’s attention back to him.  

“Ah, yes. Let me pay you for your troubles first,” he says slowly, moving behind her with hooded eyes. He presses up against her, cornering her against his desk and eliciting a moan from both of them. His breath cradles the shell of her ear as he whispers “Is it okay if I don’t pay you in caps, Knight?”   

She huffs a chuckle, long lashes dark against her cheeks as she closes her eyes, nodding enthusiastically as she whispers an affirmative back. Quinlan takes no time kneading the soft part of her neck not covered by her vault suit between his lips. He crowds her further against the hard corner of the desk, bringing his broad palm against her thighs and spreading them apart in a stroke of what he likes to think is suave promiscuity.  

The haughty sighs escaping from her smile are beautifully hot explosions against his ear, encouraging his fingers to rub against the microfilament fabric growing damp under his touch. She grabs his hand, a stark contrast of coffee against pale cream, and laces their fingers together as she unzips the front of her suit, revealing the delicious curve of her breasts and the slight plumpness of her tummy. Quinlan kisses her again, releasing his hand to venture downward once more.  

She gasps again when Quinlan kisses her shoulder, suit made asunder now that it was unzipped, exposing light freckles that dot the expanse like little memories of the sunshine that Quinlan rarely saw at present. His mouth stops at each one, licking slowly and coaxing the softest of gasps from the shorter woman in his arms – his fingers hadn't even entered her yet and were still slick with her need for him.  

"Mmm," he hums against her throat, "My lil girl's already so wet?" He says as though slightly in disbelief but he's snickering against her ear now. He places his other hand firmly against her sternum and pushes ever so gently until her back is flat against his chest, and spends little time reigniting the assault on her neck and finally, _finally_ letting two large fingers slip inside her.  

She turns to kiss him, open mouthed and greedy. He can feel her lips contour into a smirk to mirror his, pleas of _fuck me daddy, fuck me, Quinlan,_ lost in the surge of primal pleasure that escapes merely as silence from her shocked lips as he brushes against a rough spot he wasn't aware existed. Ah, something to exploit.  

Quinlan rubs vigorously against what he half-jokingly thinks is the g-spot, feeling the Knight's legs buckle beneath her in spasming waves. He stops before she can climax, apologetically flicking the pad of his middle finger inside her while also lapping against her neck. She groans in what sounds like disappointment and arousal at the same time, making his cock twitch against the suffocating wet spot forming on his pants.  

He figures she felt that, since the next sound that she makes is a loud mewling that wakes pitiful, hapless Emmett from his slumber under the desk. Quinlan shushes her with soft pecks to the nape of her neck, saying "Shh, let daddy take care of you."  

He moves stray hairs away from her face to reveal a sweaty, exquisitely flushed cheeks and even more alluring eyes, cast under the curtain of thick eyelashes. When she licks her lips in the most sultry manner Quinlan's ever seen, he resumes fucking her with his fingers, this time adding the tender thrust of his hips against her ass every now and then to really demonstrate the sheer attraction he has for her in this moment.  

"F-fuck, Quin-" she manages to choke out when he moves the third finger in, feeling tightness and slippery contractions that drains the hotness in his belly into his groin. He can feel the pre-come dripping out in beads onto his slacks, some coating his thighs – and she wasn't much better off. Quinlan thanks his past self for the daily push-ups regimen he set up, and grunts as he rigorously brings her back to orgasm, sloppy, wet sounds echoing off the walls with every movement of his arm.  

She damn near screams when she comes, water pooling in Quinlan's palm as she wets her thighs and vault suit. The sensation of it makes Quinlan come against her with a strained gasp, and he has to recollect himself before he can pull his hand out from inside of her, liquid falling with very audible splats against the metal floor. He knows it's not piss, but is too tired to ask exactly what it is, instead kissing her gently. He zips her up without having being asked, pulling his coat off to warmly wrap around her, revealing his skinny shoulders that usually hide under his armor. "By god, you were amazing." He whispers to her, and she smiles up at him, starry eyed and sincere.  

*** 

Nearly a year passes and he remembers that smile the day the Prydwen burns and the battlefield is rotten with young bodies – the blood of his brothers and sisters dripping from his glasses and seeping through the leather of his armor, turning its once vibrant navy color into a royal purple. He rushes to the frontlines below the main deck, hearing nothing but the blood rushing passed his ears in a flurry of adrenaline and confusion. He spots her, and whether by fate or a divine joke, they make eye contact as she turns to lead the Railroad infiltration. Quinlan swallows, raises his laser pistol, safety off, and hesitates.  

But she doesn't.  

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first time writing pr0n. i'll let you decide if it's a joke or not


End file.
